I opened the boot of the car, hoping to find the spare tire and just be able to get far enough out of here that I wouldn’t remember what’d happened. I was met with a horrific sight. He lay there. Ankles tied to wrists. Hunched. Lifeless. A red river trickled from his left temple out into the midnight blue velveteen boot of the BMW. The blade remained in my hand.
My husband was dead.
Getting into the car, I let off the hand break and to my surprise the car began to chug alone slowly. The cruel wind cried harshly and rattled against the roof of the silver BMW filled with lasing freezing rain and odd disjointed lost screams from the beyond. The skies blackened heavily until the rough tarmac of the mountain road, its inky darkness almost merged into one, and it was rendered impossible to tell one from the other. My head grew heavy and began to slump permissively downwards as I drove as fast as I could up the mountainside, or at least until I found another path to cross onto. My sight grew ever dimmer as a looked forward, attempting to see which way the road was going next. My attempts were in vain. And yet still, I followed the flow of the inky black river that I found before me, desperate to get off this road while what little light remained still remained in the sky.
As I left court, one thought remained: Life imitates art. I think I knew what it would take to become An Artist. Now all I needed was a Studio.